


Stuck in Reverse (Fix You)

by x_posed_again



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-05
Updated: 2011-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 05:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_posed_again/pseuds/x_posed_again
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus struggles to deal with the side effects of a concussion he sustained during a recent game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck in Reverse (Fix You)

The room is empty; lights out, shades drawn and Marcus is practically drowning in it. It’s an all encompassing choking void that has been slowly, little by little eating him alive from the inside out for weeks now. He sits on the edge of his bed, head resting in his hands as he takes inventory of each and every tick of his heart. How each _thud_ pounds against his chest, beating over and over and over until the swell of noise and static rises up and bangs against his brain like a freight train.

It’s enough to make his pulse race and his stomach knot up six ways from Sunday and he almost pitches over and heaves what little he managed to choke down for dinner… almost. _Merlin, when will this just stop?_ Marcus wipes the back of his hand against the cold sweat that is slowly breaking out across his forehead. The movement, the small shift is enough to make his head spin around like a top and start the sick cycle all over again.

Fuck, God must hate him.

Every sound, every little noise is enhanced a million times over and they each stick in his mind like razorblades and Flint wishes- _Merlin does he wish_ \- he had paid better attention when they learned silencing spells. Only he didn’t and _shite_ if he isn’t kicking himself now.

Especially as he hears the gentle creek of the chronically squeaky floorboards outside his room bend and twist and pop in his head until he’s not sure he can physically squeeze his eyes shut any harder. _Stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP!_   He begs and pleads over and over, silently mouthing the words to himself.

“Flint?”

Marcus doesn’t need to look up to know exactly where the heavily accented voice is coming from, he can hear ever single blasted movement Oliver makes as the Keeper’s large frame shifts heavy against Flint’s door frame. The door he obviously forgot to shut… shut, lock, board, charm, nail closed… whatever it would take to keep everyone out. Damn him and his lack of foresight.

He expects the third degree from his teammate. To be grilled and drilled within an inch of his life and he doesn’t have the patients or the strength to deal with any of it right now. Only instead of pressure to play or perfectly pointed questions there are a few moments of silence, glorious deadened silence until a soft, almost concerned: “Wha’d the healers say?”

Flint wants to scoff at just how ridiculous the question sounds, how silly and asinine the small amount of hope Wood’s voice holds, but instead it comes out as something between a choking sob and a strangled laugh, but fuck it… it’s really the best he can offer right now.

“Marcus-”

“Don’t,” the Chaser tires to shake his head to clear away all of the hesitation he hears coming from his flatmate, but stops the second the simple movement threatens to suck him under. Quickly, he jams his palm against his temple in a pathetic attempt to quiet the dizziness. “Just don’t.”

Oliver sighs somewhere deep in the back of his throat and pushes himself away from the wall. Marcus can hear each footstep, each reverberating off the next and it makes him want to do something stupid like yell or put his fist through a wall. Only he doesn’t. That would be dumb and… well, ya… o.k., completely like him, but that’s beside the point. Instead, he takes a deep breath and holds it as Wood hesitantly, _oh so slowly_ , lowers himself down onto the mattress. Like the simple movement might be the final straw that sends the Chaser overboard.

“Not gonna break,” Marcus doesn’t elaborate. There isn’t a need to and honestly he doesn’t have the energy too.

Oliver nods, slow and steady, knowing fully well his teammate can’t see it, but he figures the understanding is there. “I know it’s just…” he doesn’t bother finishing for fear of what Marcus might say if he does.

Flint can physically taste the response sitting heavy on his tongue, bitter and languid and he hopes spitting it out might relive the horrid taste it’s leaving. “Three weeks.”

“Before you can play?”

The question comes too quickly, too energetic and this time Marcus actually does laugh, a deep seeded sound that surprises even himself, “Before they will evaluate me again.”

“Oh,” Flint can hear the shock in his flatmate’s voice and he tries to bury it deep behind the insistent pounding in his head so he doesn’t have to deal with it. There are only so many _things_ Marcus is capable of handling at one time and currently, he is full up.

“Ya,” the Chaser roughly scrubs at his face. The bruises that lingered heavy under his eyes and across the bridge of his nose have almost fully disappeared, but his skin still protests by leaving a deep wake of pain behind from the act. Another blatant reminder that, he is in fact, not o.k. yet… no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.

It’s another one of those “things he can’t deal with right now” so Marcus turns to eye his roommate, keenly aware of how quiet everything has become. The air is suddenly thick and heavy, like breathing concrete and he gently… ever so gently… bumps his own shoulder into Wood’s like the contact might be enough to crack everything open. “At least I’ll be out of your hair. Bright side, silver lining or some shite like that, right?”

He expects the Keeper to nod, smile or make some stupid comment about playing through pain, but Oliver just stares blankly at the wall. His lips are pushed tightly together, brow knit and Marcus doesn’t know if can even give the look a name.

“The other Chasers-” Flint tries to start.

“Aren’t as good as you, ya?” Oliver quickly interrupts. He throws a sideways glace at his teammate before practically jumping up off the bed like he can’t physically stand to be there any more. The quick up-spring of the mattress nearly upends Flint and the Chaser pushes a heavy palm to his temple to fight against the hot strike of pain and wooziness.

“Fuckin’ hell,” the dizziness hits him like a brick wall and his whole body feels like it may break from the impact. His insides churning upside down and he knows he should brace himself or risk falling off the bed completely, but he can’t force his body to work let alone what balance he has remaining. But just as suddenly as it hits, a strong hand is pressing against his back, tilting him upright before gently holding him in place as wave after wave of vertigo crashes over him and Marcus can only struggle against it and hope he doesn’t break apart at the seems.

He waits, he waits what seems like hours when he knows only minutes or seconds have really passed, for the awful disorienting sickness to quell and he hates himself. Merlin does he hate himself right now for being so weak, so fragile and stupid and if he had only… had only… had only… he wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place. The thought does little to ease the pounding between his ears so instead he opts for fisting his left hand in the soft comforter on his bed and hoping it will be enough to ground him, if only for a minute.

Marcus can feel the mattress dip again before heat is plastered to his side and while it might take him a minute to figure out through the thick fog in his head that ya, Wood is sitting so close to him that the Keeper is practically in his lap; it only takes about three seconds before he decides that he really doesn’t mind and even quicker to know that he doesn’t want to spend any time figuring out why.

“’S bad, isn’t it?”

The Chaser guesses it must be a rhetorical question because Wood slides his hand up to the base of Marcus’ neck and gently squeezes and who could really blame him for not being able to answer at the moment? With the way his head is pounding and Wood’s thumb is rubbing in small gentle circles at the base of his neck and…

“I can’t-” Flint stops himself there because he doesn’t know when that word… _can’t_ … became part of his dictionary, but there it is leaving his mouth as easy as breathing. “I can’t make it stop.”

“You’re over thinkin’ it.”

Marcus chokes out a noise of indignation from somewhere deep in the back of his throat. He has been accused of many things in his lifetime, many many things, but over thinking something… anything, well that has to be a first. “And you’re full of shite. Don’t you think I would have wished this damn concussion away if I could?”

Oliver laughs heavy against the Chaser’s temple and it’s only now that Marcus fully realizes how close their bodies are. Warm breath ghosts across his skin leaving a trail of goose bumps in its path and he can’t help but shiver slightly. Something that isn’t lost on Wood as the Keeper continues rubs the pad of his thumb in slow soothing circles.

“Let me help.” It’s a statement, not a question, but Marcus finds himself almost nodding anyway. Not that Wood needs the invitation seeing as they have already somehow become entangled in each other’s personal space in the span of just a few minutes.

The bed shifts and creeks as Oliver settles himself behind Flint and while the noises do nothing to quiet the fire burning in the Chaser’s head he finds he suddenly doesn’t care. “What are ya-” only the question dies on his lips when Wood lays heavy hands on his shoulders and squeezes.

The Chaser allows his head to lull forward, its weight suddenly too much for his neck to handle and Oliver practically hums at the gesture. The noise is a deep, gentle mummer that does more to reassure the Chaser than he thinks should be possible and he leans back, silently seeking out the reverberations that roll through the Keeper’s chest.

Oliver quietly tenses, hands stilling. “’My hurtin’ ya?” The concern is evident in his voice.

“No, no you’re...” Marcus takes a deep breath, needing the extra air to force the rest of the sentence out. “You’re fine.” He feels like an idiot sitting there with his eyes closed and mouth agape, but no one can see him and its pitch black in the room so he manages to shove the thought away (he can only handle so many at once remember?). Instead opting to concentrate on how Wood seems to somehow know exactly where to press and where to be soft, when to rub and when to gently run fingertips over skin.

The Keeper’s hands stray to the middle of Marcus’ back, knuckles running down the man’s spine as his thumb drags behind soothing the muscles as he goes. Marcus all but shudders and he has to bite his lip to keep himself from doing something stupid… like sighing like some bint. He thinks about asking Wood where he learned to do this when the movement suddenly stills.

Flint is about to protest, about to say something idiotic like “don’t stop” when warm fingertips gently come to rest against his temples and he’s done. The soft pressure against his throbbing skull is enough to make him suck in a quick breath and grab absently at his flatmate’s knees that sit tucked in tight at his own sides.

He can feel the hesitation in Wood immediately, fear creeping in that the Keeper has pressed him too far too fast and…

“Tell me if I’m-”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Marcus spits the words out as quickly as they will come and he doesn’t know why he suddenly _needs_ this. Needs Oliver’s hands on him, needs someone taking care of him and letting him break. He doesn’t know why he needs, but he does… he needs needs needs… and he’s not sure what to do about it.

It has to be the hit to the head. It’s gone and permanently messed him up and he doesn’t know what side is up anymore… hasn’t for weeks, but this… _this_ feels right and good and fuck if Oliver isn’t finding every pressure point, every bit of pain that cracks across his mind like wildfire and douses it. The Chaser can’t do anything other than lean in harder, slump like a rag doll against the Keeper’s chest as his fingers still lay splayed out against Oliver’s knees.

Knuckles drag across his brow, gently pressing against the pain there before sidling down the bridge of his nose and under his eyes. Even weeks later the faint hints of purple and yellow still cling to Marcus’ skin and Wood is careful, ever so careful as he grazes over the deep bruises before running his fingers to the back of Flint’s head.

Marcus figures Oliver is searching for the fault line… the huge fissure the Chaser knows has to be there only the discovery never comes. Instead, he only feels the gentle reassuring pressure of Wood’s hands and it makes him almost whimper. A horrible noise he didn’t even know his body was capable of making until that moment, but he’s hopeless to stop is busting forward from his lips.

“Still with me?” Wood’s breath is heavy against his neck and the short hairs there jump to attention.

“Y-ya,” Marcus isn’t sure the words are even leaving his mouth so he tries again. “Merlin, Wood. I… I…”

Flint may not be able to find the words, but Oliver understands as he wraps a strong arm around Marcus’ waist and pulls the Chaser gently back against him. Marcus thinks he should protest, should fight against the way Oliver’s hand feels splayed out against his side or the way Wood’s body seems to curl around his own, but he feels grounded… something he hasn’t felt for weeks and he practically groans as his hips stutter up on their own accord.

“Easy,” the Keeper places a strong hand on the flat plane where Marcus’ stomach disappears into dark gym shorts. “I’ve got ya, don’t worry.” The deep Scottish brogue is enough to set Flint’s nerves on fire and he wants to answer, wants to tell his flatmate that his bones have someone turned to gel, but the only sound he can manage is a quick intake of breath.

If Oliver notices, he doesn’t say anything; instead opting to press his forehead against the back of Marcus’ head as his fingers continue to work their magic against the man’s temples.

“Bloody hell, Wood.”

The Keeper smiles against heated skin, relishing the way Marcus’ voice breaks and wavers.

“Not gonna-” his retort is quickly cut shot as Oliver’s hand run down the front of Flint’s gym shorts. The touch is light and barley there, but Marcus about comes unglued at the friction. His back arches, his hips canter forward and the arm around his waist quickly tightens.

“You still doin’ alright?”

Marcus knows what the man is asking, knows his teammate wants to make sure he isn’t pushing any limits, but the last thing Flint wants to think about right now is his God damn head or quidditch or… “Just keep going.”

Oliver smiles against the Chasers’ shoulder; Flint can practically feel the grin spread across his own skin and while that should make him want to turn around and wipe the smirk off Wood’s face with his fist it doesn’t. And he definitely doesn’t want to take the time to figure out what that means right now. Not with the way Oliver has his arm wrapped around him or how Marcus is practically in his flatmate’s lap or… _fuck_ … the way Wood’s hand is resting on the inside of his thigh, just resting, fingertips barley scratching at the fabric of his shorts or…

“Stop thinkin’,” Oliver’s voice sounds deeper than what Flint thinks it should, deeper than he thinks he’s ever heard it and the sound shoots straight to his groin. “Just… fuck, come ‘mere.”

Marcus doesn’t think they could get any closer, but Wood finds a way to manhandle the Chaser and tuck him further in between his bent legs, pull him just a little closer and wrap an arm around his waist just a little tighter as if Flint might break if the Keeper doesn’t hold him together.

And he might. It’s an honest concern.

Oliver presses another kiss against Flint’s skin, nose bumping into Marcus’ ear while his free hand wanders under the Chaser’s light T-shirt. Fingers tracing lines up smooth muscles taking note of each jump, each tick of Flint’s body and pausing just long enough to make sure Marcus is still fine, still o.k., still with him. It isn’t hesitation because, well… Oliver Wood doesn’t hesitate once he puts his mind to something. No, it’s reassurance. Reassurance that Oliver will wait if Marcus needs it, he will stop if Marcus tells him to, but most importantly that Oliver will collect all the pieces and put him back together again if he breaks. No, fuck that… it’s reassurance that well it’s perfectly o.k. for Flint to break, fall to tiny little bits if he has to, Oliver won’t let it happen.

So Marcus just sinks deeper into the Keeper, practically goes boneless and melts until his back is perfectly molded into Oliver’s chest. Wood hums out his appreciation against Flint’s ear and while the noise would normally make the Chaser jump in pain it only acts to settle his nerves more. The gentle vibrations rolling and soothing away the dull incessant ache that has plagued him for weeks and he pushes back hard against the Keeper while his fingertips dig into Wood’s knees.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” the strong arm wrapped around his waist pulls him down, pressing him firmly into Wood’s lap until Marcus can feel… can _fucking feel_ just how much Oliver wants this. Only his teammate doesn’t give him any time to recover from that thought before Wood’s hands are back on his shoulders, kneading the tense muscles there before working their way back up his neck and to his temples.

Oliver presses firmly against the older man’s skull, careful to only help and not hurt and Marcus can’t help the small knee-jerk hiss that escapes through his lips. It feels so good, so damn good like the Keeper has somehow found the valve, the magic switch that lets all the pain all the pressure finally escape. It’s enough to let him feel, let him feel something other than dizzy or sick for the first time in weeks and now that there is room in his brain, room for something more than pain the complete sensation of Oliver molded behind him and around him hits him full force.

Marcus let’s his head fall back, slip from the Keeper’s grasp until it is resting fully on Oliver’s shoulder. From this angle it is easy for him to turn just so slightly, run his noise along the side of Wood’s neck. His roommate smells like soap and grass and the pitch and dammit how the man manage to smell like quidditch ever after he’s showered leaves Marcus hard, aching and wanting more. Wanting to know what Oliver’s skin feels like against his lips, what he taste likes and when the Keeper shudders just ever so slightly it’s the straw that breaks the camels back and Marcus does lean in. Does press his lips against Oliver’s neck relishing the way the pulse he finds there quickens under his touch so he does it again, this time gently sucking as he goes.

‘I’m supposed ta be helpin’ _you_ , remember?” It almost comes out as a laugh and Marcus can’t help the smile that has somehow crept onto his face.

“You are.”

“Mmm hmm,” is the only response he receives before Oliver leans forward to press his lips against Flint, tongue gently licking at the seam begging for entrance. And when Marcus parts, just slightly, Oliver takes it as the only invitation needed before deepening the kiss into something that leaves them both breathless. Marcus didn’t think he could get any harder, but with the way Wood is exploring his mouth like it’s the last safe place on Earth his cock jumps with interest and he rolls his hips forward in search of something, anything to help relieve the pressure.

He expects… hell, he doesn’t know what he expects, but when he feels Oliver’s hand heavy on his hip he can only suck in a deep breath and wait. The touch is soft, hesitant, and when fingertips quietly creep over his length Marcus about dies. His back arches and his hips canter forward seeking out more friction and Wood only holds on to him that much tighter, pulls him that much closer.

The gym shorts Flint is wearing does little to hide his excitement and he knows what he must look like at this moment, but it’s dark and _fuck_ it feels too good to stop. Especially when Oliver digs the heel of his palm against his crotch, hard and steady and just enough force to make the Chaser’s eyes roll back in his head. Marcus’ hips chase the pressure, buck up and try to follow as Wood pulls his hand away, but the Keeper is having none of it as he pulls the man back into his lap.

The deep breathy moan that falls from Wood’s lips as Flint’s arse grinds back down against his lap is enough to leave Marcus dizzy and disoriented and he isn’t sure if it’s the concussion acting up or just being here like this with his teammate so he squeezes his eyes shut, screws them as tight as they will go and presses his face against the Keeper’s neck. He breaths deep, inhaling the familiar sent over and over until it calms his nerves and sets his mind right again.

It’s only once Marcus’ head stops spinning that he realizes Oliver has once again taken up rubbing his temples.

“I’m fine,” Marcus breathes the words heavy against Wood’s skin.

If the Keeper plans to protest he shows no signs of it, instead letting Flint dictate the pace with a simple nod. “Aye,” is all Oliver offers before moving his hand back to Marcus’ thigh.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m….” he isn’t sure if he is trying to convince his teammate into moving or himself into believing it, but when Wood runs his fingers along the waistband of Flint’s shorts and then dips in to take all of Marcus in his grip he doesn’t care anymore. “Oh, _oh_ …” is all he has to offer as the Keeper roughly tugs at his length.

He is not a teen anymore, not some horny kid who can’t control his own body and it’s not the first hand job he’s ever had, but dammit it’s the first in a while and fuck if he isn’t already begging Oliver to slow down.

“Merlin, s-stop… fuck, d-don’t make me embarrass myself here, Wood.”

The Keeper slows, but doesn’t stop his motions. Instead, he gently strokes the Chaser over and over until Marcus’s fingers are digging so hard into Oliver’s thighs that his fingernails must be leaving bruises. He’s so close, has been since they stared whatever the hell this is and the last thing he wants is to cream his pants, but he’s pretty sure his teammate has other ideas. All Flint can do is pant, curse and alternate between bucking up into the slow steady glide of Wood’s fingers and back against the Keeper’s lap and sizable hard-on.

And when Oliver drags his thumb over the head of Marcus’ cock, wet trail of precum left in its wake, all Marcus can think is “yes, yes, yes,” before he even has a chance to register “too soon” or “not like this”. His eyes roll back in his head and his hips rock up before he is shooting all over the inside of his shorts and Oliver’s hand.

In the back of his mind he swears he hears Wood gasp, thinks he feels the Keeper latch on to his hips and drag him hard across his lap, but Marcus can’t really concentrate. Not with the way his brain is fogging over or how his limbs have decided to stop working.

“Oh, oh holy fuck, Wood.” It’s not the most intelligent of responses, but he figures it does a well enough job of getting the point across. His fingers are still resting on Oliver’s thighs and Wood’s hands are still gripping his own hips and while he figures one of them should probably move (and really it should be him since he has now become a wet, sticky mess) he just can’t find the motivation right now.

“You… you want me to…” Marcus drags the hand he has resting on Oliver’s thigh higher, fingers inching towards their goal. Only the Keeper bats Flint away and gently shoves the older man off his lap, still careful not to send the Chaser into another bout of vertigo.

“Ah, nah… I’m… I’m good.”

“Come on, Wood. Even I’m not _that_ big of a prick.”

“It’s ah, I’m fine. Really.”

Marcus reaches out again, fingers not even getting close to Oliver’s fly before his wrist it caught in the other’s grasp. _Damn Keeper’s reflexes._

“Honest, Flint… I’m... it’s fine.”

The Chaser watches as his roommate turns his head and drops his eyes. Even though he can’t see it, Marcus is sure Wood must be about five shades of Gryffindor maroon right about now. But instead of going for the jugular, mocking Oliver within an inch of his life all Flint can concentrate on is…

“When… how?”

Wood actually chuckles. A nervous reaction Flint’s sure.

“It’s… it’s been awhile,” Oliver actually looks up at his teammate at this, head still turned down so he is starting at the former Slytherin through overgrown hair that is falling in his face. “And you were grinding down on me pretty hard… and…” he doesn’t bother to finish.

Marcus figures the Keeper is trying to sort out what to do next in his head, worried that Flint will pin him to the wall with words only the Chaser wouldn’t dream of it. Not after what Oliver has done for him- and they both know it goes way past just getting off.

“Next time,” Flint makes sure to lean in, hand on Oliver’ thigh and body close enough to convey that he definitely wants there to be a next time. “Tell me. Let me know so I can watch… want to see you too.”

“Ya?”

“Fuck ya.” Marcus flashes the Keeper a wicked grin before leaning back on his haunches and stretching out his back. “Fuck,” he grimaces at the sodden feeling as his shorts pull across his skin. “Need a shower.”

“Probably better than a cleaning spell, aye?”

“Much. You, ah… you coming?” While he feels fine, better than fine actually… the best he has felt since the accident, he knows that Oliver is the main reason for it. So can you really blame him for not wanting to stray too far for that relief at the moment? It may be an excuse to keep the Keeper close, but he doesn’t want to put too much effort into over thinking what that means right now. “Wouldn’t want to get dizzy again… pass out on the bathroom floor or something.”

“Ya, ya… makes sense,” Wood nods his agreement. “Three weeks you say?” The Keeper is climbing off the bed, quickly trailing after Flint towards the bathroom.

“Ya, three weeks.”

Maybe it’s not so bad.


End file.
